Dropped coins.
Change.
Cannot heal anything
with their clinking,
rustling
in the bottom of pockets,
forgotten drops
from larger bills.
Cast aside fractions,
some pretend at value,
but with copper souls easily bent.
Spinning,
dropped wild onto surfaces
and making exact, noisy points.
They’ll win no wars,
profit only the low
and count only when myriad.
Ignored,
deigned to be hoarded,
it’s the wisest that collect,
save,
perceive truth worth.